Snake in the Grass
by Adastra
Summary: You are Severus Snape and you must make a choice. Are you ready? Are you prepared? Set toward the end of Goblet of Fire.


Author's Note: Thanks to my betas, Jen and Savannah :-)

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Snake in the Grass  
by A.

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_"Severus, you know what I must ask you to do."_

Your footsteps echo in the stairwell as the hard soles of your shoes make contact with the stone steps that lead down into the dungeon. At the bottom of the stairs, you stop and lean against the wall as a sick, nervous feeling flows through you. You glance around warily as if expecting the Dark Lord to rise from the very shadows that waver along the walls in the flickering torchlight, but the shadows are just shadows, forms without substance. Feeling angry at your uneasiness, you defy it and, straightening up, you head purposefully down the corridor that leads toward your office. This hall seems darker than the others, as if the light were shrinking away from you, already aware of your intention, your fate. Your impending return to Lord Voldemort. 

_"If you are ready... if you are prepared..."_

When Dumbledore had spoken in the hospital wing, you had been so quick to answer,_ "I am."_

But are you? 

If you had asked Dumbledore for time to ready yourself, for time to prepare, you know he would have given it to you without hesitation. If you had said you could never be ready, he would have understood. If you had never made the decision to join Voldemort all those years ago, then he never would have asked this of you. 

If. 

Such a little word, seemingly innocuous, and yet it contained all the potential in the world, as well as all the lost opportunities and regrets of a lifetime. You must not dwell on the ifs of events in the past for once a choice has been made, what might have been does not matter. 

And you have made your choice, haven't you? When the headmaster had asked, you had answered. But as you think on it, you realize that you could not have said anything other than what you did. Could you have been shown to be a coward in front of the Potter boy? In contrast to Sirius Black? In the wake of that fool Cornelius Fudge? No. 

You arrive at your office and, after pulling your wand out from the inner folds of your robes and waving it, you grumble the password to unlock the door, "Belladonna." 

As the door opens, the candles in the room ignite and bathe the walls in a dim, flickering light. You step inside, relieved to be in your own familiar space. Jars of potions ingredients fill the shelving along your west and south walls. Jars filled with the pickled tails of fire newts, the sparkling red powder of ground bicorn horn, the crystalline liquid of a Cyclops' tears, the dried leaves of Devil's Snare, and a myriad other ingredients all neatly labeled with your own handwriting. The east wall is lined with bookshelves that are not adequate to hold all the volumes in your collection; stacks of dusty books are piled on the floor in front of the shelves. Your desk, along the south wall, faces north and has two uncomfortable chairs in front of it. You have lectured many a student as they sat shifting uneasily in one of those chairs. The north wall features your doorway, where you now stand, and a fireplace with an unadorned stone mantle. Facing the fireplace is a worn brown leather couch on which you have often relaxed enjoying a warm fire during the winter when the dungeon tended to be especially cold. It was not uncommon for you to fall asleep on the couch after working late either. Next to the couch is a small table with a stack of students' essays sitting on it waiting to be graded. The office, dark and dusty, is comforting because it is distinctly you. You wonder if you will see it again after tonight. 

Though it is June and warm and humid even in the dungeon, you point your wand at the fireplace and wearily utter, "Incendo." A fire blazes up in the fireplace radiating heat and brightening the gray stone walls with an orange glow. 

You go to the couch and plop down onto it. A sigh slips through your lips. You set your wand on top of the papers on the table and try to clear your mind. You start rubbing your temples then rub your hands over your face and through your long hair. 

Are you ready? 

Edgy and unable to relax, you jump to your feet and start pacing in front of the fireplace. You jerk up your sleeve and glare at the Dark Mark that is etched onto your arm. It has faded to a faint red and the edges of the snake and skull symbol, Voldemort's symbol, are fuzzier and less distinct than they were earlier in the evening. It had been almost easy, over the years, to forget that the Mark was there. It was not until during this school term that you had been reminded of it when you had felt it starting to tingle and ache. Tonight it had finally come sharply into focus with a black pain that had seared through your arm. You smooth the sleeve back down and then glance up at the box of floo powder sitting on the mantle. Just a sprinkle when the Dark Lord summons, just a sprinkle when you next feel the Mark start to burn and you will transport yourself from your office to a fireplace outside of Hogwarts from where you will be able to Disapparate and then Apparate at Voldemort's side. 

Are you prepared? 

You said that you were. Why are you questioning yourself? Voldemort will demand to know why you were late and why you came back. He may kill you whether he believes your story or not. If he does not kill you then you have no doubt that he will torture you. In spite of the fire, a cold sensation permeates your body and wrenches at your insides. You have experienced the Cruciatus Curse several times before under Voldemort. They are not pleasant memories. He will torture you just enough to make you beg him to stop so that when he finally does, you will grovel before him, kiss his robes, and thank him for releasing you. He will demand your allegiance, your oath to be his faithful servant, and you will give it to him. You will once again become a trusted, if that's the right word for it, supporter. A Death Eater. You are afraid. 

Of what? 

The Dark Lord will ask you to act in his service, to commit unforgivable crimes, and you will do it. Dumbledore knows that you will do it. You have done it before, after all. But this time, you tell yourself, it will be for the greater good. You remind yourself that you despise Voldemort's cause. Years ago, when you had turned away from him it was because you had grown sick of the pain and death, the revelation of your hate arriving one night when you had been dispatched to torture a Muggle girl, just five years old. You hadn't been able to do it. It wasn't because you had not committed such crimes before; it was because you could no longer see the point. That night a rage had erupted inside you when you had stared as the girl slept in her bed, oblivious to the monster hovering over her. You were to torture her not because she was a threat or anyone of importance, but because you could, because Voldemort willed it. You had decided those reasons were not enough and a hot rush of hatred for all Voldemort had ever asked of you had flooded your heart. You had Disapparated from the girl's room and then you had sought out Albus Dumbledore. 

You didn't know why then, and you still don't know now exactly why you chose Dumbledore. Perhaps because he had been kind to you when you had been a child. Perhaps because a part of you had still trusted him, had known that he would not torture or kill you, but that he would listen. All you had wanted was for someone to listen. After your confession you had fully expected him to contact the Ministry of Magic and you had been willing to go to Azkaban, that terrifying place where interminable misery rather than bars holds in the prisoners. You had been willing to throw yourself to a dementor, to let it administer its worse-than-deadly kiss, to let it suck out your soul if you still had one. Dumbledore had said no, go back, this is your chance to redeem yourself. Go back and know that you are not Voldemort's agent, but ours. And you had gone back. It was the hardest thing you had ever had to do, but you had done it. 

So what are you afraid of? 

Not death, not torture, not slavery. Not enslaving, not torturing, not killing. 

Then what? 

You might enjoy it. 

You had the first time, for a while, at least. The Imperius Curse had been your favorite. In your opinion, the Cruciatus and Killing Curses were without enjoyment. It was easy to torture or kill someone, but to control their every move, to make them torture someone else or kill someone else, that was power. Desire for power is what had pushed many witches and wizards down the path of Dark Magic; you were no different. Well, maybe a little. You were more susceptible. You were a Slytherin. You were not as clever as a Ravenclaw nor as brave as a Gryffindor nor as hard working as a Hufflepuff, but your blood burned with driving ambition. Dark Magic was an quick path to power and it had been easy to ignore the consequences when your ambitious desires were served. 

You know you still have a taste for power for inside your chest still beats the heart of a true Slytherin. Perhaps that's why you make such a good traitor. To gain Voldemort's trust, then betray it. To learn his secrets, then give them to Dumbledore. That gave you incredible power over the Dark Lord. It had been hard to go back to Voldemort the first time that Dumbledore had asked you to spy. He'd had to convince you to do it. But now you know what that power is like and, this time, when Dumbledore had asked if you were prepared, your heart had pushed you to say without hesitation, "I am." 

And what if you enjoy being a Death Eater again? 

The headmaster must know that this danger exists, and yet he still trusts you to do the right thing. Foolish? Maybe not. You are in Dumbledore's debt. After Voldemort's fall and the final roundup of the Death Eaters, the Ministry had put you on trial, and Dumbledore had defended you. He didn't have to. He was the only one, at that time, who knew you were a spy. All the intelligence you had ever acquired you had passed on only to him. He was also the only one to whom you had confessed all of your sins, the one who knew every disgraceful act you had committed. Still, he had defended you. He had given the Ministry jurors the evidence to show how invaluable your information had been in the struggle against Voldemort though the cost of it had been high. Dumbledore had saved you from being thrown into Azkaban where the constant presence of the dementors would have made you forget what it was like to have hope, where you would have prayed everyday for the mercy of death. 

Even after the trial, Dumbledore had continued to help you. He had given you a second chance to live a normal life when he asked you to be Potions Master at Hogwarts. You could not have asked for more. Though many students, even some faculty, thought you had a strong desire to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts, you don't and you have never pressured the headmaster to give you the position. In fact, you want nothing to do with Dark Arts because you are afraid to taste that power again. Whatever people whisper in rumor, you do not want the job, and it is just coincidence that you happened to despise all of the Defense teachers of the past several years. Moody, or rather the man you had thought was Moody, you despised because he despised you. It was hard to like a man who thought anything less than the Dementor's Kiss was too good for any former Death Eater. With Lupin, the wounds were old and deep, scars left by years of childhood animosity. Lockhart had just been a grandiose, self-serving, incompetent buffoon who you had seen through from the start. And Quirrell you had, at first, simply thought to be a rather pathetic human being, but then you had started to suspect he was after the Sorcerer's Stone; it was an even longer time before you understood why. You rather hope that next year Dumbledore might be able to hire a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher you don't hate. It would be a nice change. 

Aside from the Potions Master job, Dumbledore had appointed you head of Slytherin House, a role you enjoy. You identify with many of your students who feel out of place among the throngs of Ravenclaws, Gryffindors, and Hufflepuffs. Your position as a professor at Hogwarts has given you a new kind of power. Teaching, praising, and punishing the next generation of witches and wizards is power over the future. It is an existence you have been content with. It is all thanks to Dumbledore. You owe him your life; you owe him everything. 

A knock comes from your door. You stop pacing and call out, "Enter!" 

The door opens and, to your surprise, it is Dumbledore himself who steps inside. You nod to him and say, "Headmaster." Your eyes wander down to something he is carrying in his hands. It is a neatly folded black cloak. 

Dumbledore nods back to you saying, "Severus." He approaches, holding out the cloak for you to take. You reach for it and your hand hovers over it for one hesitant moment, but then you grab it and shake it out. The fabric ripples smoothly like oil, its sleek sheen accentuated by the firelight. 

"Silly," you say, more to yourself than to Dumbledore, "I had forgotten." You pull the cloak on over your shoulders and fix the clasp above your breastbone. You reach back and pull the hood up over your head, the dark folds fall into place, hiding most of your face. It is the garment of a Death Eater, an enchanted cloak that has the effect of appearing mysterious and frightening to the victims who will look upon it, but leaves the wearer feeling as if they are naked and vulnerable. That is how Voldemort would have it: to have people fear his followers, but still leave his followers afraid. The common name for this type of cloak is fitting, the Death Eater's shroud. 

"It doesn't suit you, Severus," Dumbledore says softly and pulls the hood off your head. 

"Doesn't it?" Your voice is bitter. 

"No," Dumbledore replies firmly. He removes his hat and wipes his brow. 

You suddenly realize how hot the room has become and that there are trickles of sweat tickling your face. You pick up your wand, point it at the fire, and mutter, "Frigido." The fireplace starts radiating cold instead of heat. Moving over to the mantle, you put your hands on it, and stare into the flames. "I expect the Dark Lord will summon again tonight, maybe not until tomorrow." 

"I wish there were another way," Dumbledore says. He puts a hand on your shoulder and asks quietly, "Would you like me to stay?" 

You don't answer immediately. You do want him to stay. You want to hear his misgivings. You want him to find a reason not to send you because you don't want to have to make the decision. You don't want to have to admit to him that you are afraid you will enjoy being a Death Eater again, that part of you might be looking forward to going back. 

"Severus?" 

The voice startles you from your thoughts. Without looking at Dumbledore, you shrug his hand off your shoulder and snap, "No. Just go." 

"Very well," Dumbledore responds, his voice sad. "Good luck, my friend." Why does he have to call you that? Friend. You hear him open the door and before it closes behind him, he says, "I trust you." 

You slam your fist on the mantle, a dull pain reverberating through your hand and lower arm. Why does he have to say that? You don't want people to trust you. Life would be less complicated if no one trusted you. Voldemort had trusted you and you had betrayed him. Now Dumbledore trusts you, he is relying on you. A dangerous thought slips into your mind. Betraying Voldemort had brought you power, but how much more would betraying Dumbledore bring you? 

You shake your head. Not even you could be so treacherous. Not even you could do that. Not even you. 

Are you so sure? 

The Death Eater's shroud, terrible as it is, feels familiar, like a friend you have not seen in a long while, a friend with whom you may wish to be reacquainted. You shake your head again, but the question still lingers in your mind. 

The Mark on your arm starts to prickle. You step back from the mantle and pull up your sleeve to see the skull and the snake darkening and becoming distinct on your skin. In spite of nerves still flitting sickeningly in your stomach, in spite of the what-ifs dancing on the edges of your mind, you know what you must do. You are ready. You are prepared. 

As you open the box of floo powder, a soft, humorless laugh escapes your lips, and flinching slightly, you whisper, "Voldemort or Dumbledore?" 

The choice is really no choice at all. 

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End 


End file.
